Blanche : 

The  Maid  of  Lille 


I 


LIBRARY 

UN«VCRSITY  OF 

iPORNIA 
•'  DIEGO 


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BLANCHE:    THE    MAID    OF 
LILLE 


BLANCHE: 


The  Maid  of  Lille 


Translated  from  the  German  of 

OSSIP  SCHUBIN 

by 

SARAH    H.    ADAMS 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

BOSTON 

M  C  M  I  I 


Copyright,  7902,  by 
SARAH  H.  ADAMS 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Stmonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


INTRODUCTION 

A  FEW  years  since  we  chose  to  spend 
the  summer  in  a  chalet  among  the 
Dolomites  of  South  Tyrol.  Weird, 
fantastic,  inaccessible,  mysterious,  gro 
tesque,  and  yet  often  wearing  a 
jewelled  crown  of  eternal  ice,  these 
peaks  soared  into  the  ether  above  and 
around  us.  "  Nothing,"  says  a  recent 
traveller,  "  can  surpass  the  majesty  and 
beauty  of  the  towers  and  ramparts,  the 
battlemented  walls,  impregnable  castles, 
and  gracefully  pinnacled  cathedrals  into 
the  forms  of  which  their  summits  are 
5 


INTRODUCTION 

built  up.  Their  colouring  is  another 
striking  characteristic;  many  of  them 
rivet  the  eye  with  the  richness  of  the 
tints,  —  deep  reds,  bright  yellows,  sil 
very  whites,  and  the  dark  blues  and 
blacks  of  the  rocks.  But  all  these 
colours  are  modified  and  softened  by 
a  peculiar  grayish  white  tint.  The 
mountains  look  as  if  powdered  over 
with  some  substance  less  hard  and  cold 
than  newly  fallen  snow." 

Although  within  a  day's  drive  of 
Pieve  di  Cadore,  —  Titian's  birthplace 
—  and  not  far  from  Cortina,  we  could 
hardly  have  found  a  more  isolated  spot. 
It  was  a  hermitage,  and  we  knew  lit 
erally  no  one  within  hundreds  of 
miles. 

6 


INTRODUCTION 

Ossip  Schubin,  the  popular  German 
novelist  at  that  time,  had  sent  us  a 
volume  of  stories,  with  the  request  that 
we  would  translate  them.  We  selected 
the  story  now  offered  as  being  most  in 
sympathy  with  our  romantic  surround 
ings. 

A  learned  Englishman  has  said,  "  If 
histories  were  written  as  histories  should 
be,  boys  and  girls  would  cry  to  read 
them."  But  alas !  how  is  the  spirit, 
the  tone,  of  a  dead  century  to  be  made 
to  breathe  again  and  report  itself?  The 
landscape  alone  is  permanent ;  new  fig 
ures  constantly  fill  the  foreground. 
Poetry,  legend,  myths,  help  us  to 
divine  some  of  the  strange  chords  in 
the  human  chant,  which,  heavily  bur- 
7 


INTRODUCTION 

dened  with  sorrow,  come  down  to  us 
through  the  ages. 

In  this  twentieth  century  no  one 
sentiment  or  emotion  is  allowed  so  far 
to  dominate  as  to  crush  out  all  others. 
But  how  was  it  in  the  days  of  the 
Crusaders,  of  the  Minnesingers,  of 
the  Troubadours  ?  If  we  would  realise 
the  seclusion,  the  loneliness  of  many 
lives  centuries  ago,  we  have  only  to 
enter  either  "  The  Wartburg "  or  the 
castle  of  Solmes  Brauenfels  in  the 
Rhine  valley,  which  dates  back  a  thou 
sand  years.  Look  into  the  gloomy 
keeps ;  hear  the  shrieking  of  the  bars 
in  the  heavy  portcullis ;  gaze  down 
into  the  damp,  ugly  moats ;  or  listen 
to  the  soughing  of  the  stormy  winds 

8 


INTRODUCTION 

in  the  branches  of  the  tall  forest  trees 
which  closely  environ  these  grim 
abodes.  It  is  conceivable  that  Eliza 
beth  languished  and  died  at  "The 
Wartburg,"  when  the  chivalrous  Tann- 
hauser  no  longer  came  to  inspire  with 
love  and  song.  Could  even  Martin 
Luther  have  lived  in  these  cold,  black 
walls  without  his  work  which  daily 
rekindled  his  soul  as  he  studied  the 
inspired  pages  of  the  Bible  ? 

Among  the  annals  of  a  wicked  old 
past,  this  story  appears  as  a  legend 
dimly  connected  with  the  pathetic  face 
of  the  "  Maid  of  Lille "  a  copy  of 
which  is  in  the  Boston  Art  Museum. 

There  is  no  appeal  here  to  the 
modern  girl.  The  word  "altruism" 
9 


INTRODUCTION 

had  not  been  invented.  Yet  there 
was  genius  in  loving  as  Blanche  did 
—  what  trustful,  boundless  love,  what 
exaggeration  of  the  object  loved  !  And 
while  to-day  we  strive  to  master  a  use 
less  sorrow  by  a  useful  activity,  we  can 
still  appreciate  the  beauty  and  holiness 
of  such  love. 

SARAH  H.  ADAMS. 


10 


BLANCHE 

IN  the  museum  at  Lille,  somewhat 
aside  from  the  bewildering  mass  of 
pictures,  stands,  in  a  glass  case,  a  mas 
terpiece  of  unknown  origin  —  the 
"  tete  de  cire,"  —  a  maiden's  bust 
moulded  in  coloured  wax. 

You  will  smile  when  you  hear 
of  a  coloured  wax  bust  and  think  of 
Madame  Tussaud's  collection,  or  of  a 
pretty,  insignificant  doll's  head ;  but 
should  you  ever  see  the  "  tete  de  cire," 
instead  of  laughing  you  will  fold  your 
hands,  and,  instead  of  Madame  Tus 
saud's  glass-eyed  puppets,  will  think  of 
ii 


BLANCHE 

a  lovely  girl  cut  off  in  her  early  bloom, 
whom  you  once  saw  at  rest  on  the 
hard  pillow  of  her  coffin.  Pale,  with 
exquisite  features,  reddish  brown  hair, 
eyes  slightly  blinking,  as  if  afraid  of 
too  much  sun,  a  painfully  resigned 
smile  about  her  mouth,  and  with  neck 
slightly  bent  forward,  as  if  awaiting  her 
death-stroke,  full  of  touching  inno 
cence  and  of  a  languid  grace,  this 
waxen  bust  stands  out  of  its  dull  gold 
case,  —  the  image  of  an  angel  who 
had  lived  an  earthly  life  and  whose 
heart  was  broken  by  a  mortal  pain. 

Whence  came  this  masterly  produc 
tion  ?  Nobody  knows !  One  ascribes 
it  to  Leonardo,  another  to  Raphael, 
while  still  others  have  sought  for  its 

12 


BLANCHE 

origin  in  antiquity.  Upon  one  point 
only  all  agree,  —  that  the  bust  was 
made  from  a  cast  taken  after  death. 

The  painter,  Wickar,  brought  it  out 
of  Italy  into  France.  'Twas  said  that 
he  found  it  in  a  Tuscan  convent. 

V       *      > 

The  lovely  girl  smiles,  pleased  at  the 
critical  debates  of  the  curious,  who 
wish  to  attribute  this  graceful  creation 
to  one  of  the  illustrious  Heroes  of  Art : 
smiles  and  dreams  ! 


No,  it  could  not  be  —  'twould  be  a 
sacrilege ! 

He  was  forty-five  and  she  scarcely 
seventeen.  It  could  not  be  ! 

After  a  series  of  adventurous  cam 
paigns,  after  mourning  over  many  de 
feats  and  celebrating  many  victories, 
and  finally  losing  his  left  leg  in  the 
memorable  battle  of  Marignano,  Gott 
fried  de  Montalme,  finding  himself  dis 
abled  for  the  rough  work  of  a  soldier, 
had  returned  to  France  and  to  his 
father's  castle,  whose  gates  his  brother, 
the  duke,  hospitably  opened  to  him. 


BLANCHE 

He  found  this  brother  a  widower, 
and  at  the  point  of  death ;  but  beside 
the  dying  man's  couch  was  a  lovely 
little  maiden  who  offered  her  cheeks 
to  be  kissed  in  welcome  to  the  wan 
derer.  She  was  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
talme's  only  child  —  Blanche,  a  heart's 
balm  !  the  light  of  his  eyes  ! 

Leaving  no  male  heir,  the  entire 
inheritance  of  the  Duke  of  Montalme 
—  his  castle  and  lands,  with  all  the 
feudal  rights  appertaining  thereto,  — 
would  devolve  upon  the  returned 
warrior,  Gottfried.  The  little  maiden 
was  badly  provided  for,  and  this  the 
duke  knew  full  well,  and  it  made  his 
dying  heart  sad. 

Gottfried  sat  by  the  bedside  of  his 
15 


BLANCHE 

brother  through  the  warm  May  nights. 
He  heard  the  ticking  of  the  death- 
watch  in  the  wainscoting  of  the  old 
walls,  heard  the  dewdrops,  as  they 
slowly  rustled  through  the  leaves  of 
the  giant  lindens  outside,  heard  the 
laboured  breath  of  the  dying  man  — 
but  more  distinctly  than  all  did  he 
hear  the  beating  of  his  own  heart. 

Toward  morning,  when  the  first  slant 
sunbeams  shed  a  rosy  glimmer  into  the 
gray  twilight  of  the  sick  man's  room, 
this  beating  grew  louder,  for,  with  the 
early  sun,  Blanche  slipped  into  the 
chamber,  and,  leaning  compassion 
ately  over  the  sufferer,  whispered, 
"  Are  you  better,  my  father  ? " 

Ah !  for  the  Duke  of  Montalme 

16 


BLANCHE 

there  was  no  better,  and  one  night  he 
laid  his  damp,  cold  hand  upon  his 
brother's  warm  and  powerful  one, 
saying,  with  the  directness  his  near 
relationship  warranted,  "  Gottfried,  it 
would  be  a  great  comfort  to  me  if 
you  would  take  Blanche  for  your 
wife." 

At  this  Gottfried  blushed  up  to  the 
roots  of  his  gray  hair,  and  murmured, 
"  What  an  idea  to  come  into  your  head 
—  I  an  old  cripple,  and  this  young 
blossom  !  It  would  be  a  sacrilege  !  " 

"  She  does  not  dislike  you,"  said  the 
duke. 

The  brave  Gottfried  blushed  deeper, 
and  said,  "  She  is  but  a  child." 

"  Oh,  these  conscientious  notions  !  ' 
17 


BLANCHE 

grumbled  the  exhausted  man.  But 
notions  or  not,  Gottfried  was  firm,  and 
of  a  marriage-bond  with  the  child 
would  not  hear;  he  promised  to  afford 
the  little  maiden  loving  care  and  pro 
tection  —  promised  to  guard  her  as 
the  apple  of  his  eye  —  as  his  own 
child,  until  he  could,  with  confidence, 
lay  her  hand  into  that  of  a  worthy 
lover's. 

And  while  he  promised  this,  his 
voice  sounded  hollow  and  sad  like 
the  tolling  of  a  funeral  bell.  The 
duke,  with  the  clear-sightedness  of 
the  dying,  cast  a  glance  into  his 
brother's  heart,  and  discovered  there 
a  holy  secret. 

"  You're  an  angel,  Gottfried,"  he 

18 


BLANCHE 

murmured,  "  but  you  make  a  mistake,' * 
and  shortly  after  breathed  his  last. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  Dame 
Isabella  von  Auberive,  a  distant  rela 
tive  whom  Gottfried,  for  propriety's 
sake,  had  summoned  hither,  arrived 
at  the  castle  to  share  with  him  in 
the  care  of  the  young  girl.  Beside 
her  father's  bier,  surrounded  by  the 
dim,  nickering  candles,  he  kissed  the 
sweet  orphan  reverently  on  the  brow, 
as  one  kisses  the  hem  of  a  Madonna's 
robe ;  and  promised  her  his  loving 
care.  But  when  she,  in  a  torrent  of 
childish  grief,  wound  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  pressed  her  little  head 
against  his  shoulder,  he  became  almost 
as  white  as  the  dead  man  in  his  coffin, 
19 


BLANCHE 

and  tenderly  but  firmly  released  him 
self  from  her. 

It  could  not  be  —  'twould  be  sacri 
lege. 


20 


II 


DURING  the  brilliant  period  in  the 
reign  of  King  Francis  I.,  it  happened 
that  in  the  marvellously  fair,  luxuriant 
Touraine,  through  whose  velvet  green 
meadows  ran  the  "  gay-jewel-glisten 
ing  Loire,  —  the  frolicsome,  flippant 
Loire,"  —  there  arose  on  its  banks,  one 
by  one,  the  stately  dwellings  of  many 
a  proud  lord. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  others,  in 
a  retired  spot,  where  King  Francis's 
elegant  hunters  seldom  found  their 
way,  towered  up  the  Castle  of  Mon- 
talme ;  large,  massive,  with  gloomy 
21 


BLANCHE 

little  windows  sunk  into  deep  holes  in 
the  walls,  and  with  a  round  turret  on 
either  wing.  Stern  and  forbidding,  it 
looked  down  into  the  moat  in  whose 
waterless  bed  toads  and  frogs  revelled 
amid  the  moist  green  foliage ;  for  the 
age  was  fast  drawing  to  a  close  in 
which  every  nobleman  had  been  a 
little  king,  and  the  simple  heroic 
French  feudality,  blinded  by  the  nim 
bus  of  Francis  I.,  were  rapidly  being 
transformed  into  a  mere  host  of 
courtiers. 

The  dull  uniformity  in  the  architec 
ture  of  Montalme  stood  out  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  castles  of 
sunny,  pleasure-loving  Touraine.  The 
internal  arrangement  corresponded  to 

22 


BLANCHE 

the  plain  exterior,  and  to  the  nai've 
pretensions  of  a  century  when,  even  in 
Blois  and  Amboise,  the  favourite  cas 
tles  of  the  king,  the  doors  were  so  low 
that  Francis  himself,  who  is  known  to 
have  been  of  regal  stature,  had  to  stoop 
to  enter  them.  The  scantiness  of  the 
furniture  in  this  huge  Castle  of  Mon- 
talme  added  to  its  forlorn  aspect ;  nor 
was  the  slightest  deference  paid  to  pre 
vailing  fashion.  The  ladies  wore  som 
bre-coloured  dresses,  cut  high  in  the 
neck,  and  covering  the  arms  down  to 
the  very  end  of  the  wrists  ;  skirts  hang 
ing  in  long,  heavy  folds,  allowing  only 
the  pointed  toe  of  the  leather  shoe  to 
peep  out.  The  gentlemen  wore  the 
hair  long,  and  their  faces  smoothly 
23 


BLANCHE 

shaved ;  their  doublets  reached  in  folds 
almost  to  the  knees,  as  had  been  the 
fashion  under  the  simple,  economical 
rule  of  the  late  king. 


A  year  had  glided  by  since  the  death 
of  the  duke.  Blanche  enjoyed  the 
happiness  of  youth,  free  from  care, 
and  Gottfried  the  peace  of  honest, 
high-souled  self-denial.  A  guardian 
angel,  he  limped  about  modestly  at 
the  side  of  his  niece,  rejoicing  to  be 
able  to  remove  every  stone  which 
threatened  to  mar  the  smoothness  of 
her  path,  or  to  scare  away  the  hawks 
lurking  in  ambush  to  surprise  her 
innocence. 

24 


BLANCHE 

And  when  considering  the  charms 
of  his  dear  little  niece,  Gottfried 
thought  of  the  orgies  in  the  Amboise 
Castle,  of  the  "  petite  bande  "  and  the 
merry  raids  of  the  king,  the  real  aim 
of  which  was  nothing  higher  than 
some  foolish  love-adventure,  he  shud 
dered.  Deeply  and  often  he  pondered 
the  matter.  Blanche  was  eighteen — it 
was  time  for  her  to  be  married  —  and 
yet  his  brave,  faithful  heart  shrank 
with  anguish  at  the  bare  thought  of  it. 
He  would  not  hesitate  (at  least  he  be 
lieved  this  of  himself)  to  part  with  her 
if  only  he  could  find  a  true-hearted, 
honourable  man.  But  in  this  age  of 
beauty  and  song  —  the  age  of  King 
Francis  —  such  an  one  was  hard  to  find. 
25 


BLANCHE 

Meanwhile  Blanche  was  contented 
with  her  lonely,  monotonous  life,  per 
haps,  in  part,  because  she  knew  no 
other,  yet,  also,  because  a  fountain  of 
youthful  gaiety  was  still  unexhausted 
in  her  heart.  There  were  many 
things  to  do  in  the  daytime,  and  she 
played  chess  with  her  uncle  in  the 
long  winter  evenings,  while  sparks 
flashed  out  of  the  heavy  oak  logs  in 
the  chimney,  and  the  single  tallow 
candle  in  its  artistically  wrought  iron 
candlestick  wove  a  little  island  of 
light  in  the  Cimmerian  darkness  of 
the  monstrous  hall. 

Sometimes  Gottfried  entertained  her 
with  stories  —  the  legend  of  Tristran 
and  Iseult  —  or  the  pathetic  tale  of 

26 


BLANCHE 

the  Count  of  Lusignano  and  the 
fair  Melusina ;  often,  too,  he  told 
her  of  his  own  adventures  in  foreign 
lands. 

But  the  happier  Blanche  made  her 
self  in  this  lonely  life,  the  more  furious 
became  Dame  Isabella.  She  was  a 
worthy  woman,  but  never  could  realise 
that  her  once  distinguished  beauty  had 
long  been  buried  under  a  weight  of 
corpulence,  and  therefore  did  not 
restrain  herself  from  putting  on  all 
sorts  of  ridiculous  airs  and  graces,  in 
order  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
whole  neighbourhood  to  her  supposed 
charms.  Out  of  sheer  ennui  she  ogled 
even  her  page,  Philemon,  a  boy  of 
twelve  years,  although  he  cherished 
27 


BLANCHE 

a  modest  but  so  much  the  more  glow 
ing  adolescent  passion  for  the  lovely 
Blanche. 

Whilst  winding  endless  skeins  of 
silk  off  the  hands  of  the  page,  she 
sighed  in  a  heart-breaking  way,  and 
made  the  most  pointed  remarks  about 
the  laziness  and  unmannerliness  of 
those  noblemen  who  purposely  avoided 
any  approach  to  the  kind,  chivalrous 
king. 

Gottfried  long  forbore  to  respond  to 
such  innuendoes.  Of  what  use  would 
it  be  to  try  to  explain  to  this  silly  old 
person  that  the  court  of  King  Francis 
was  not  the  proper  sphere  for  such  a 
fat  old  woman  as  herself,  or  for  a  little 
maiden  like  Blanche,  who  would  re- 

28 


BLANCHE 

ceive  a  kind  of  adulation  before 
which  the  good,  true-hearted  warrior 
shuddered  ?  Once,  however,  when 
Dame  Isabella,  more  excited  than 
usual,  stormed  in  upon  him  and  in 
sisted  that  the  young  girl's  future 
should  be  taken  into  immediate  con 
sideration,  he  gave  her  an  angry 
answer.  But  it  did  not  silence  her, 
and  though  the  worthy  woman  talked 
plenty  of  nonsense,  yet  she  some 
times  made  a  remark  that  Gottfried 
could  not  think  wholly  unjustifiable. 
"  Blanche  is  eighteen  years  old ! " 
stormed  Dame  Auberive ;  "  if  you  do 
not  wish  her  to  marry  you  must 
resolve  to  place  her  in  one  of  the 
nunneries,  which  are  the  only  respect- 
29 


BLANCHE 

able  refuge  for  unmarried  women  of 
her  position." 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  did  not  want 
Blanche  to  marry  ? "  exclaimed  Gott 
fried,  with  anger  and  agitation  ;  "  it  is 
only  that  I  have  not  yet  found  any  one 
good  enough  for  her."  But  Dame 
Isabella  replied  with  cutting  scorn, 
"  No  one  will  ever  seem  to  you  good 
enough  for  her !  "  and  bounced  out  of 
the  room  the  picture  of  righteous 
indignation. 

Shortly  after  this  it  happened  that 
a  young  knight  was  brought  into  the 
castle  badly  wounded ;  he  had  fallen 
among  thieves,  been  robbed,  and  left 
unconscious  by  the  roadside.  He  must 
be  a  man  of  rank,  the  servants  thought 

30 


BLANCHE 

who  brought  him  in,  for  his  dress, 
though  soiled  and  torn,  was  of  the 
finest  material,  and  he  wore  the  full 
beard  with  close-shaved  hair  which 
most  of  the  courtiers  wore  in  imita 
tion  of  the  king.  Gottfried  recog 
nised  in  him  a  certain  Henri  de  Lancy 
who,  at  the  battle  of  Marignano,  had 
fought  beside  him  and  won  general 
admiration  for  his  bravery,  and  had, 
more  than  all,  dragged  him  —  his  old 
friend  Gottfried  —  out  of  the  thick  of 
the  battle  after  a  ball  had  broken  his  leg. 
As  he  bent  over  the  handsome 
youth  lying  there  before  him  with 
closed  eyes,  so  pale  and  helpless,  an 
emotion  of  deep  pity  overcame  Gott 
fried,  and  he  exerted  himself  to  the 


BLANCHE 

utmost  to  lavish  on  De  Lancy  all  the 
comforts  which  the  poor  castle  of 
Montalme  could  command. 

The  sight  of  the  wounded  knight 
roused  the  quiet  castle  out  of  its  phleg 
matic  drowsiness,  and  the  heart  of 
Dame  Isabella  beat  so  wildly  that  her 
orders  confused  the  heads  of  her  ser 
vants.  Even  through  the  veins  of  the 
innocent  Blanche  thrilled  a  strange, 
dreamy  unrest. 

At  that  time  there  prevailed,  to 
gether  with  a  sultry  kind  of  vicious- 
ness,  compared  with  which  modern 
profligacy  appears  petty  and  childish, 
a  frank,  genial  naivete,  which  is  lost 
to  our  age  with  its  prudish,  artificial 
morality.  The  most  delicate  maiden 

32 


BLANCHE 

did  not  hesitate,  at  that  time,  to  lend 
help  in  nursing  a  sick  man ;  and  be 
sides,  women  in  that  century  —  thanks 
to  the  rarity  of  doctors  —  found  it 
necessary  to  acquire  some  knowledge 
of  the  healing  art. 

Hence  it  was  that  Blanche  came  to 
the  assistance  of  Dame  Isabella  and  her 
Uncle  Gottfried  in  the  care  of  De 
Lancy,  and  as  her  hand  was  the  most 
delicate,  it  usually  fell  to  her  to  loosen 
the  bandages  around  the  ugly  wound 
on  his  head,  and  as  she  had  the  stead 
iest  nerve,  it  was  she  who,  with  Gott 
fried's  help,  removed  the  splinter  of  a 
broken  sword-point  from  his  shoulder. 

Quiet  and  helpful  as  an  angel,  she 
hovered  about  the  unconscious  man. 
33 


BLANCHE 

But  once,  as  she  was  bending  over  his 
couch  to  watch  the  breathing  of  the 
sufferer,  a  great  abatement  of  the 
wound  fever  happily  set  in.  De  Lancy 
opened  his  eyes,  which,  though  at 
times  blue  as  the  heavens  above,  were 
at  others  black  as  an  abyss.  The 
"  petite  bande  "  knew  these  eyes  well. 

Just  now  they  were  very  blue  and 
fixed  with  peculiar  pleasure  on  the 
tender  little  maiden.  But  she  drew 
back  embarrassed.  The  strange,  mar 
vellous  eyes  had  driven  away  his  guard 
ian  angel,  and  from  that  hour  she 
avoided  the  sick  man's  room. 

9  9     ;       * 

We  shall  readily  imagine  that  Henri 

de    Lancy    would    not    endure    to    be 

34 


BLANCHE 

nursed  like  a  sick  woman,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  could  lift  hand  and  foot,  he 
dragged  himself  off  his  couch  —  possi 
bly  his  impatience  to  see  the  pretty 
girl  again  had  also  something  to  do 
with  this  haste. 

It  provoked  the  young  dandy  that 
he  could  noj:  introduce  himself  into 
the  presence  of  the  ladies  in  a  more 
elegant  costume ;  yet  his  comparatively 
simple  travelling  dress  was  becoming 
to  him,  and  still  more  (at  least  in  the 
eyes  of  the  sweet  Blanche)  his  paleness, 
his  deep-sunk,  feverish  eyes,  and  the 
weakness  in  all  his  movements,  which 
he  strove  to  hide ;  for  there  is  some 
thing  which  appeals  to  the  sympathies 
of  a  true  woman  in  seeing  a  strong, 
35 


BLANCHE 

chivalrous  man  impatient  and  mortified 
at  his  weakness.  Under  her  dropped 
eyelids  Blanche  watched  all  his  move 
ments,  and  was  constantly  considering 
how  to  remove  what  might  interfere 
with  the  comfort  of  the  helpless  inva 
lid.  Yet  she  did  not  offer  him  the 
slightest  service  herself,  only  secretly 
made  Dame  Isabella  acquainted  with 
the  need.  Her  sympathy  and  her 
charming  bashfulness  did  not  fail  to 
touch  the  heart  of  the  convalescent. 

The  "  petite  bande "  would  have 
laughed  in  scorn  and  right  heartily, 
had  they  seen  how  modestly  the  auda 
cious  De  Lancy  exerted  himself  to 
please  the  unpretending  little  girl  with 
the  pale  face  of  a  novice. 

36 


BLANCHE 

And  Lady  Isabella  neglected  the 
page  Philemon  and  adorned  herself  to 
such  a  degree  that  —  well  —  it  cost 
De  Lancy  all  the  trouble  in  the  world 
not  to  laugh  in  her  face.  The  finest 
part  of  her  toilet  was  her  "  coiffure," 
which  in  style  dated  back  at  least 
thirty  years.  It  consisted  of  a  tower 
ing  head-dress  that  ran  up  to  a  point, 
from  which  an  enormous  veil  fluttered 
down  to  her  knees. 


The  days  came  and  went  —  the 
beautiful  July  days  —  flooding  Tou- 
raine  with  golden  sunshine  from  dawn 
to  dewy  eve.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
the  perfume  of  roses  and  linden  blos- 
37 


BLANCHE 

soms.  Henri's  hollow  face  had  re 
gained  its  full,  natural  contour,  and 
his  arm  had  long  been  freed  from  the 
sling.  He  was  able  to  travel  —  yet  of 
his  departure  spoke  never  so  much  as  a 
dying  word. 

He  was  only  a  merry-hearted,  heed 
less  fellow,  but  with  a  very  attractive 
manner ;  when  it  pleased  him  he 
could  assume  toward  women  at  once 
such  a  courteous,  amiable,  respectful 
manner  that  no  one  could  long  be 
vexed  with  him,  even  were  she  the 
proudest  of  the  daughters  of  earth. 
He  had  so  completely  enchanted 
Dame  Isabella  that  she  spent  whole 
nights  pondering  over  the  preparation 
of  the  most  rechercht  viands.  She 

38 


BLANCHE 

served  up  to  him  the  most  skilfully 
made  pies,  capons  dressed  with  spices 
after  the  Spanish  custom,  or  young 
peacocks  which  she  knew  how  to 
roast  so  artistically  as  not  to  singe  a 
feather  on  tail  or  little  cro.wn ;  and 
when  the  dame  saw  with  what  love- 
intoxicated  gaze  he  often  fastened  his 
eyes  on  the  beautiful  girl,  she  fur 
thered  his  intercourse  with  her  as  only 
she  could.  It  would  have  delighted 
her  to  win  such  an  aristocratic  connec 
tion  as  De  Lancy. 

But  there  was  one  person  in  Mon- 
talme  who  could  not  feel  friendly 
toward  the  gallant  young  knight  — 
and  this  was  the  lord  of  the  castle 
himself. 
39 


BLANCHE 

"  How  long  is  he  going  to  stay  ? " 
he  growled  out  one  day  to  Dame  Isa 
bella.  "  He  has  sent  for  his  clothes  and 
his  pages,  and  next  he  will  be  inviting 
his  friends  here  to  display  Blanche's 
charms  to  the  whole  country." 

"  Don't  imagine  this,"  said  Isabella, 
with  a  shrewd  smile ;  "  lovers  are 
miserly,  and  would,  if  possible,  keep 
the  joy  of  their  heart  out  of  sight 
of  the  entire  world.* ' 

"The  joy  of  his  heart !  "  exclaimed 
Gottfried.  "  Then  it  is  high  time  that 
I  interfered  and  obliged  him  to  declare 
himself!" 

"  Let  nothing  of  the  kind  occur 
to  you ! "  exclaimed  Isabella,  with  a 
look  of  horror.  "  Spare  the  germ  of 

40 


BLANCHE 

his  young  love  until  it  ripens  into  an 
earnest  desire  for  the  happiness  of 
marriage." 

Gottfried  became  gloomy.  "  If  I 
thought  that  the  man  would  woo  the 
girl  honourably  !  He  is  a  most  attract 
ive  fellow,  but  although  brave  and 
generous,  the  best  among  the  young 
coxcombs  of  to-day  are  proud  of  trans 
gressions  which  the  worst  in  my  day 
would  have  been  ashamed  of,  and,  in 
fact,  they  regard  it  only  as  a  good  joke, 
an  aristocratic  pastime,  to  seduce  an 
innocent  girl ! "  and  he  struck  his 
brow  with  his  fist. 

"  Such  an  idea  should  never  come 
into  your  mind,"  said  Isabella,  passion 
ately  ;  "  it  is  shocking  in  you  to  insult 
41 


BLANCHE 

the  man  who  saved  your  life,  by  such 
scandalous  suspicions.  You  call  your 
suspicions  conscientious  —  they  should 
properly  bear  quite  a  different  name." 

"What,  then?"  growled  Gottfried. 
Dame  Isabella  stood  on  the  tips  of 
her  toes,  and  hissed  in  his  ear, 
"Jealousy  !" 

At  this  he  ground  his  teeth,  —  his 
eyebrows  contracted  with  pain  ;  -  -  he 
turned  on  his  heels  and  left  the  room  : 
determined  to  watch  and  be  silent ! 


42 


Ill 

IN  the  cool,  lofty  rooms  of  the  Cas 
tle  of  Montalme  Blanche  wandered 
about  all  this  time  like  one  bewildered 
by  a  great  joy.  Her  eyes  were  half- 
closed,  as  if  dazzled  by  too  clear  a 
radiance,  and  her  voice  was  full  of 
plaintive  rapture,  like  that  in  which 
the  nightingale  sobs  his  love  through 
the  warm  summer  nights,  and  all  her 
motions  had  an  added  grace. 

But   one   day   Dame   Isabella   whis 
pered   to   her,   "He   is  desperately   in 
love  with  you  !  " 
43 


BLANCHE 

And  it  awakened  Blanche  out  of  her 
sweet,  unconscious  ecstasy.  She  began 
to  test  it  —  to  doubt !  She  noticed  ex 
actly  how  often  he  addressed  a  word 
directly  to  her,  was  sad  if  he  passed 
her  without  seeking  response ;  his 
glance  to  her  glance  —  his  smile  to 
her  smile ! 


44 


IV 

DREAMY  afternoon  stillness  brooded 
over  Montalme,  the  doves  cooed  mon 
otonously  on  the  roof.  In  one  of  the 
deep,  oak-panelled  window  niches 
Blanche  stood  gazing  down  into  the 
courtyard,  which  was  full  of  dark  shad 
ows.  There  stood  De  Lancy  in  the 
picturesque  costume  Titian  has  immor 
talised  in  the  portraits  of  Francis  I., 
the  puffed  sleeves  and  high  ruff  under 
which  the  handsomest  man  in  France 
was  pleased  to  hide  the  stoop  in  his 
shoulders  and  the  thickness  of  his  neck. 
45 


BLANCHE 

To  young  De  Lancy  this  costume 
was  wonderfully  becoming.  With  the 
black  -velvet  bonnet  at  his  ear,  he  was 
amusing  himself  with  a  falcon,  which, 
perched  on  his  shoulder,  he  alternately 
teased  and  soothed ;  then  a  greyhound 
stretched  to  full  length  came  bound 
ing  forward  with  light,  quick  leaps, 
and  sprang  upon  him.  De  Lancy 
slipped  his  thin,  delicate  hand  behind 
his  ear,  and  stroked  him  with  all  the 
tenderness  which  men  of  our  day  are 
accustomed  to  bestow  on  their  dogs 
and  horses,  with  a  certain  pride  in 
their  training.  At  this,  however,  the 
falcon  became  jealous,  beat  his  wings, 
and  pecked  the  hound  with  his  beak. 
De  Lancy  enjoyed  teasing  the  two 

46 


BLANCHE 

animals,  and  when  by  alternate  caresses 
he  had  made  both  positively  unhappy, 
he  pressed  with  one  hand  the  head  of 
the  falcon  against  his  cheek,  and  with 
the  other  the  head  of  the  hound  to 
his  breast.  Then  the  two  creatures 
were  contented,  and  he  smiled  —  his 
eyes  grew  darker,  and  his  white  teeth 
glistened. 

But  the  heart  of  the  maiden,  who, 
gazing  down  into  the  court,  saw  the 
pretty  play,  was  convulsed  with  pain,  — 
was  it  a  kind  of  jealousy  which  agi 
tated  her  —  or  simply  a  wish  ?  Sud 
denly  De  Lancy  glanced  up,  and 
espying  the  young  lady  of  the  castle, 
greeted  her  respectfully.  Blanche 
thanked  him  somewhat  bashfully,  and 
47 


BLANCHE 

drew  back  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
When  she  ventured  again  to  look 
down  into  the  court,  De  Lancy  was 
no  longer  to  be  seen. 

But  the  wings  of  the  gently  moved 
afternoon  air  bore  to  her  ear  a  little 
song  which  the  gay  youth  trilled  to 
himself  as  he  strolled  away  : 

"  Ha!  me  chere  ennemie 
Si  tu  veux  m'apaiser, 
Redonne  —  moy  la  vie 
Par  1'esprit  d'un  baiser. 
Ha  !  j'en  ay  la  douceur 
Senti  jusque  au  coeur. 
C'est  une  douce  rage 
Qui  nous  poindra  doucement 
Quand  d'un  meme  courage 
On  s'aime  incessament. 
Heureux  sera  le  jour 

Que  je  mourrai  d'amour  !  " 

48 


THIS  audacious  lov$-song  at  that 
time  flitted  from  lip  to  lip  at  the  court 
of  King  Francis,  until  about  a  year 
later  the  poet  Ronsard  sang  it,  —  and 
after  he  had  enriched  it  with  two  or 
three  daintily  elaborated  verses  it  was 
incorporated  with  his  works. 

De  Lancy  had  often  hummed  it 
when  hastening  through  the  gray  cor 
ridors,  or  walking  in  the  garden  under 
the  sombre  boughs  of  the  blossoming 
lindens.  But  never  had  Blanche  heard 
it  so  completely  and  clearly.  Warm 
49 


BLANCHE 

and  full  the  tones  of  his  voice  rang  in 
her  ears.  Through  this  exuberant  and 
frivolous  nature  passed  the  agitating 
sense  of  an  almost  pathetic  tenderness. 

Blanche  stared  before  her  into  the 
empty  air,  and  there  came  into  her 
face  a  great  terror  —  a  mighty  long 
ing! 


VI 


GOTTFRIED  watched  and  suffered  — 
each  hour  more  suspicious  and  uneasy. 

In  the  castle  chapel  of  Montalme 
stood  a  narrow-chested  saint  with 
peaked  beard,  —  St.  Sebaldus,  —  who 
bore  on  his  wooden  forefinger  an  ame 
thyst  ring.  With  this  ring  was  con 
nected  a  legend,  —  viz., --that  who 
ever  would  have  the  courage  to  draw  it 
off  the  finger  at  midnight  and  put  it 
on  his  own  —  to  him  Heaven  would 
grant  the  fulfilment  of  his  wish,  even 
51 


BLANCHE 

were  it  the  most  presumptuous  in  the 
world.  But  should  the  one  who  took 
off  the  jewel  let  it  fall  from  his  finger 
ere  returning  it  on  the  following 
night,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  the  saint, 
some  terrible  misfortune  would  speed 
ily  overtake  him. 

It  was  midnight,  and  deathly  still 
ness  reigned ;  the  moonlight  played 
about  the  pointed  roof  and  glittered  in 
the  deeply  set  windows  of  the  old  cas 
tle.  Black  and  heavy,  almost  as  a  bier- 
cloth,  the  shadow  of  this  gigantic  old 
building  spread  over  the  ground.  In 
the  garden  below,  the  nightingales 
sobbed  their  sweet  songs  in  the  flower 
ing  lindens,  sometimes  interrupted  by 
the  weird  screech  of  an  owl.  Then  a 

52 


BLANCHE 

slender  figure  glided  softly  through  the 
echoing  corridors  of  the  castle  —  the 
figure  of  a  love-sick  girl.  At  times 
she  paused  and  listened  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  breast.  A  vague, 
ghostly  fear  chilled  the  blood  in  her 
veins.  Now  she  stepped  through  the 
high  hall  adjoining  the  chapel.  She 
opened  the  -door  heavily  weighted  with 
its  ornamental  iron  bands  and  rosettes. 
The  moonlight  glanced  through  the 
coloured  windows  and  painted  fantastic 
images  on  the  brown  church  pews. 
Two  long,  brilliant  streaks  of  light 
cut  through  the  shadows  which  broad 
ened  out  over  the  marble  floor. 

Above  the  altar  hung  a  Madonna 
with  attenuated  arms  and  too  long  a 
53 


BLANCHE 

neck,  as  the  "  Primitives "  in  their 
naive  awkwardness  like  to  picture  her. 
Blanche  knelt  before  her  and  lisped 
an  Ave  and  the  Lord's  Prayer ;  then 
turning  to  the  saint  who,  stiff  and 
complacent,  gazed  down  from  his 
pedestal,  she  drew  the  ring  off  his 
finger  and  put  it  on  her  own. 

Just  at  this  moment  she  heard  a 
slight  rustle  outside,  a  confused  feeling 
of  dread  and  fear  suddenly  came  over 
her,  —  a  vague,  painful  fear  of  all  the 
mysterious  powers  of  night  and  dark 
ness.  Quite  beside  herself,  she  was 
hurrying  out  of  the  chapel  when,  in 
her  confusion,  she  almost  rushed  into 
the  arms  of  a  man  who  stepped  toward 
her  in  the  adjacent  hall. 

54 


BLANCHE 

Although  she  had  passed  so  softly 
through  the  house,  one  ear  had  recog 
nised  her  step,  —  Henri  de  Lancy,  — 
by  whose  chamber  she  was  obliged  to 
go  in  her  way  to  the  chapel. 

And  now  he  stood  before  her,  and 
his  blue  eyes  shone  in  the  clear  moon 
light,  and  he  bent  over  her  smiling. 
She  started  back,  but  did  not  fly  — 
only  remained  standing  as  if  spell 
bound.  When  he  seized  her  hand  and 
she  tried  to  free  herself,  however,  he 
held  her  fast,  whispering,  "  Stay  only 
a  little  while,  I  pray  you ;  I've  so 
much  to  say  to  you ! " 

"  Leave  me  !  leave  me  !  "  she  cried, 
timidly. 

"  Only  a  minute ! "  he  begged  of 
55 


BLANCHE 

her.  "  You  have  always  avoided  me,  I 
could  never  say  it  to  you,  but  indeed 
you  must  long  have  known  how  in 
finitely  I  love  you  !  " 

He  stooped  over  her  —  she  trembled 
like  a  delicate  rose-bud  with  which  the 
spring  wind  plays.  She  thought  of  the 
saint's  ring  which  she  had  on  her  finger 
for  the  purpose  of  conjuring  Heaven  to 
grant  her  Henri  de  Lancy's  love.  Had 
the  conjuration  then  worked  so  speed 
ily  ?  Oh,  measureless  joy  !  Oh,  never- 
anticipated  blessedness ! 

And  yet  - 

It  was  so  still  —  so  late  !  "  Leave 
me !  leave  me ! "  she  whispered. 
"  Wait,  I  must  ask  Gottfried." 

"  And  do  you  believe  he  will  know 

56 


BLANCHE 

better  than  yourself  whether  you  love 
me?" 

He  laid  his  arm  round  her  —  his 
kiss  hovered  over  her  lips  —  when  — 
the  door  was  torn  open,  and,  with  drawn 
dagger  and  face  distorted  with  rage, 
Gottfried  rushed  upon  De  Lancy. 
"  Cowardly  traitor  !  "  he  yelled,  and 
stopped,  for  Blanche,  uttering  a  hoarse 
shriek  of  anguish,  stretched  out  her 
arms  before  the  beloved  man  to  protect 
him. 

Woe  !  woe  !  in  this  moment  the  en 
chanted  ring  slipped  from  her  finger ! 


57 


VII 

ANGRY  men's  voices  echoed  through 
the  halls  and  galleries  —  then  stillness 
reigned  again. 

Without,  the  dewdrops  rustled  in 
the  leaves,  but  the  nightingales  were 
hushed.  In  her  lonely  chamber  sat  a 
pale,  sad  girl,  tearless  and  comfortless. 
When  the  gray  morning  came  a 
gloomy  rider  stormed  out  of  the 
castle. 


VIII 

AT  that  time,  —  in  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  —  shortly  after 
the  battle  of  Marignano,  and  the 
great  awakening  at  Wittenberg,  there 
brooded  over  creation  a  sultry  atmos 
phere,  in  which  the  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  of  men  frothed  and  raved  with 
unbridled  wantonness,  stimulated  by 
the  storm-ridden  air. 

King  Francis  had  brought  back  with 
him  to  his  native  land,  after  his  sojourn 
in  Italy  and  his  conference  with  Pope 
Leo,  a  highly  cultivated  artistic  taste, 
59 


BLANCHE 

united  with  a  certain  subtle  depravity 
of  morals.  Henceforth  his  court  be 
came  an  open  field  for  the  fine  arts, 
and  an  arena  for  the  most  debauched, 
sensual  orgies.  And  not  merely  owing 
to  his  high  position,  but  also  because 
he  maintained  in  the  midst  of  his  wild 
est  excesses  the  prestige  of  a  magnani 
mous  chivalry,  his  example  influenced 
all  the  young  people  of  France  directly 
and  irresistibly. 

It  was  in  the  zenith  of  this  regal 
frivolity  and  regal  favour  that  Henri's 
voluptuous  life  was  interrupted  by  the 
above-related  intermezzo  of  sincere, 
honest  love  for  this  child  of  Mon- 
talme.  But  it  was  at  the  very  time 
when  King  Francis,  basely  deserting 

60 


BLANCHE 

his  noble  wife,  the  good  Queen 
Claude,  at  the  head  of  a  jolly  troupe 
of  knights,  accompanied  by  the  most 
beautiful  women  of  France,  was  rov 
ing  from  city  to  city,  from  castle  to 
castle,  from  forest  to  forest,  making 
the  air  resound  with  the  clang  of  cym 
bals,  the  blowing  of  horns,  and  the 
baying  of  dogs ;  in  summer  drop 
ping  down  on  the  fairest  flower-strewn 
meadows,  or  near  mossy-green  woods 
to  hold  their  revels,  and  in  winter 
pelting  each  other  with  snowballs  and 
filling  the  various  castles  with  shouts 
and  laughter. 

Now  here  —  now  there  —  he  ap 
peared  as  in  a  fairy  tale  —  like  a  vision 
—  the  impersonation  of  joy.  Where 
61 


BLANCHE 

one  hoped  to  find  him  he  had  just 
vanished,  and  where  he  was  not  ex 
pected  he  came.  This  constant 
change  of  residence  frequently  embar 
rassed  his  ministers  or  those  immedi 
ately  responsible  for  affairs  of  state,  as 
well  as  the  foreign  ambassadors.  And 
whilst  the  most  serious  problems  were 
perplexing  their  heads,  he,  with  his 
knights  and  the  "  petite  bande,"  was 
ranging  all  over  the  country  in  search 
of  adventure,  and  when  needed  was 
never  to  be  found. 

It  was  as  difficult  to  prevent  one's 
self  from  being  infected  with  the  friv 
olity  of  the  king's  court  —  if  living  in 
the  midst  of  it  —  as  to  keep  one's 
health  intact  in  a  plague  lazaretto. 

62 


BLANCHE 

To  have  done  it,  one  must  have  been 
peculiarly  organised,  and  Henri  de 
Lancy  was  not  peculiarly  organised. 


63 


IX 

WEEKS  passed.  Ever  slower  the 
time  dragged  on  amid  the  aching  still 
ness  of  Montalme.  Blanche's  trem 
bling  hope,  which  resolved  itself  at 
first  into  hot,  feverish  unrest,  changed 
by  degrees  to  stony  despair. 

She  grew  paler  and  paler  —  her  lan 
guid  steps  ever  more  feeble  —  her 
talk  abstracted  and  disconnected.  With 
head  slightly  bent  forward,  her  lips 
half-open,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  va 
cancy,  she  watched  and  listened  —  in 

64 


BLANCHE 

vain !  He  came  not,  and  nobody 
came  who  could  give  her  any  knowl 
edge  of  him.  Once  when  Gottfried, 
who  did  not  allow  her  to  be  out  of 
his  sight  in  this  sad,  sad  time,  sought 
for  her  in  vain  in  castle  and  garden, 
led  by  a  jealous  suspicion,  he  climbed 
up  into  the  tower  chamber  which  De 
Lancy  had  occupied.  Through  the 
half-open  door  he  espied  Blanche. 
She  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
upon  which  De  Lancy  had  been  laid 
when  wounded.  She  smiled,  and  on 
her  innocent  lips  trembled  the  words 
of  his  daring  love-song  : 

"  Si  tu  veux  m'apaiser 
Redonne  —  moi  la  vie 
Par  1'esprit  d'un  baiser." 
65 


BLANCHE 

She  was  dreaming ! 

Whole  nights  she  sat  up  sleepless  in 
her  bed  and  murmured  or  sang  softly 
to  herself.  And  now  many  times 
through  the  stillness  of  night  she 
heard  the  beat  of  a  horse's  hoof 
at  full  speed  passing  her  window. 
Who  could  the  rider  be  who  thus 
hurried  by  Montalme  at  the  dead  of 
night  ? 

There  was  one  person  in  the  castle 
whose  faith  was  firm  as  a  rock  in  De 
Lancy's  truth.  This  was  Dame  Isa 
bella.  Daily  she  invented  fresh  ex 
cuses  for  his  remaining  away  —  daily 
arrayed  herself  in  expectation  of  his 
return.  For  hours  together  she 
would  grin  and  curtsey  before  the 

66 


BLANCHE 

mirror,    preparing    for    her    advent   at 
court. 

99         -9 

One  day  when  Blanche,  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  sat  brooding,  Dame 
Isabella  rushed  to  her,  exclaiming, 
"  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  quick,  the  royal 
hunting  party  is  coming  by  the 
castle !  " 

Blanche  trembled,  for  she  knew  that 
he  must  be  among  the  king's  retinue. 
She  stepped  to  the  window. 

Like  a  gold  embroidered  thunder 
cloud,  the  hunting-party  whirled  out 
of  the  distance  and  drew  nearer. 
Horns  sounded  and  rapid  hoof-beats 
vibrated  on  the  air.  As  they  ap- 
67 


BLANCHE 

preached,  a  good  chance  was  afforded 
to  see  the  costly  apparel  of  the  ladies, 
and  also  of  the  gentlemen,  of  whom 
an  old  chronicler  of  the  times  avers, 
not  without  point,  that  some  among 
them  wore  their  lands  and  castles  on 
their  shoulders. 

They  fluttered  by  like  a  glittering 
swarm  of  birds  of  paradise.  Blanche 
stretched  her  little  head  forward  — 
there  he  was  —  one  of  the  first ! 

He  did  not  even  look  up  —  but 
rushed  by  like  a  storm-wind,  his  face 
turned  to  a  blonde,  regal  lady,  and 
looking  proud  and  imposing  indeed. 
Blanche  staggered  back.  What  could 
there  have  been  in  that  brilliant 
throng  of  further  interest  to  her  ? 

68 


BLANCHE 

Dame  Isabella,  however,  lingered  at 
the  window,  and  grinned  and  bowed 
with  might  and  main,  while  her  huge 
head-gear  rocked  comically  back  and 
forth. 

And  now  the  king  approached  on 
a  milk-white  steed  with  scarlet  vel 
vet,  gold-embroidered  housings.  He 
looked  up,  and  was  reminded  of  an 
amusing  picture  which  De  Lancy,  on 
his  return  to  court,  when  questioned 
by  the  ladies  as  to  the  adventure 
which  had  detained  him  so  long 
away,  had  drawn  of  a  worthy  old 
scarecrow  who  tended  his  wounds  in 
Montalme.  The  existence  of  the 
lovely  maiden  Blanche  he  had  deemed 
it  wisest  to  conceal.  Stifling  a  laugh, 
69 


BLANCHE 

Francis  returned  Dame  Isabella's  greet 
ing  with  roguish  exaggeration,  then 
turning,  whispered  to  those  nearest 
him,  whereupon  they  also  looked  up, 
and  being  greeted  by  her,  the  entire 
retinue  stopped  a  minute  to  inspect 
the  self-satisfied  old  monstrosity.  But 
they  did  not  all  possess  the  amiable 
courtesy  which  distinguished  the  king 
even  in  his  unrestrained  naughtiness. 
One  of  the  ladies  smiled,  another 
laughed,  and,  like  a  spark  in  a  ton  of 
powder,  this  laugh  was  enough  to  set 
off  the  kindling  stuff  of  repressed  hilar 
ity  which  at  once  exploded. 

So  pointed  were  the  looks  —  so 
hearty  the  laughter  of  the  party  — 
that  even  the  self-admiring  Isabella 

70 


BLANCHE 

could  not  in  the  slightest  degree  be 
deceived  as  to  the  cause  of  their  merri 
ment.  Mortified,  she  drew  back  out 
of  sight,  and  the  hunting  party  passed 
on.  Yet  at  a  distance  the  sound  of 
the  continued  laughter  was  audible. 
Dame  Isabella  was  furious.  "  They 
laughed  at  me,  they  pointed  at  me 
with  their  fingers ! "  she  repeated, 
over  and  over  again,  her  corpulent 
figure,  and  especially  her  double  chin, 
trembling  in  a  remarkable  way ;  and 
utterly  forgetting  her  former  admira 
tion  of  the  court,  she  added,  "  The 
disorderly  mob  !  the  base  women  !  " 

Blanche,  who,  with  her  elbows  in 
her  hands,  was  staring  straight  before 
her  like  one  stunned,  thought,  "  Per- 


BLANCHE 

haps  he  is  laughing  at  me  too ! "  and 
thought  these  words  aloud  ;  since  she 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  sorrow  and 
longing  she  had  often  uttered  whole 
sentences  like  one  in  a  feverish  dream. 

"That  you  may  be  sure  of!"  said 
Dame  Isabella,  in  a  huff,  and  rustled 
out  of  the  room  to  lay  aside  once  and 
for  all  the  ugly  headgear  which  she 
had  had  a  chance  to  observe  was  in 
appalling  contradiction  to  the  prevail 
ing  style.  She  distinctly  recalled 
Henri  de  Lancy's  expressed  admira 
tion  for  this  same  head  ornament. 
Now  she  knew  that  he  had  been  mak 
ing  fun  of  her,  and  anger  and  resent 
ment  gnawed  at  her  heart. 

It  chanced  that  on  the  following 

72 


BLANCHE 

day  two  mendicant  friars  sought  admis 
sion  to  the  castle.  Dame  Isabella  asked 
to  have  these  bare-footed  martyrs  con 
ducted  to  her  room,  welcomed  them 
hospitably  and  in  the  most  respectful 
manner ;  in  the  first  place  because  she 
was  pious,  but  in  the  second  because 
these  wandering  monks  served  as  a 
kind  of  peripatetic  newspaper ;  for 
which  their  roving  life  afforded  them 
sufficient  variety  of  material.  Thus 
the  lady  obtained  the  most  precise 
information  about  the  frivolities  of  the 
king  and  his  rollicking  companions, 
especially  the  handsome  De  Lancy, 
who,  she  was  told,  among  all  these 
lawless  revellers  was  the  worst.  He 
was  not  only  following  the  royal  ex- 
73 


BLANCHE 

ample  to  the  last  extent  (the  monks 
exaggerated  perhaps  a  trifle,  seeing 
how  much  it  pleased  their  listener), 
but  of  late  he  had  actually  formed  a 
liaison  with  a  married  woman,  the 
Countess  de  Sologne,  whom,  as  she 
was  carefully  guarded  by  her  husband's 
jealousy,  he  visited  secretly  at  night. 
And  they  ended  by  saying,  "  It  would 
not  surprise  us  if  the  castle  lady  heard 
the  reckless  knight  ride  by,  since  it 
was  the  shortest  way  to  Laemort,  the 
hereditary  seat  of  the  Solognes." 

We  may  rest  assured  that  Dame 
Isabella  gave  the  monks  for  this 
precious  communication  plenty  of 
money  to  spend  on  their  way.  Pos 
sessed  of  her  glorious  bit  of  knowledge, 

74 


BLANCHE 

she  was  dying  to  tell  it,  and  seeing 
Blanche  at  the  chess-board,  opposite 
her  uncle,  who  exerted  himself  all  the 
time  to  try  to  distract  her  thoughts, 
she  began  immediately  to  relate  what 
she  had  heard.  They  were  not  pru 
dish  in  those  days,  and  if  here  and  there 
one  cared  to  preserve  the  innocence  of 
a  young  girl,  that  blissful  ignorance 
was  by  no  means  maintained  which 
to-day  is  held  peculiarly  sacred  and 
inviolate. 

Dame  Isabella  repeated  word  for 
word  all  she  had  heard  of  the  shame 
ful  proceedings  which  hourly  went  on 
in  the  Castle  of  Amboise,  and  of  the 
startling  depravity  of  Henri  de  Lancy. 
In  vain  Gottfried  attempted,  by  his 
75 


BLANCHE 

displeased  looks,  to  silence  her ;  she 
went  on  further,  and  advised  Blanche 
to  rejoice  that  she  had  escaped  the 
danger  of  becoming  the  wife  of  this 
vicious  fellow.  Blanche  sat  stiff  and 
straight,  not  uttering  a  word,  and  con 
tinued  to  shove  the  little  ivory  figures 
slowly  over  the  board  —  that  she  made 
the  castle  execute  the  peculiar  leaps 
of  the  knight,  Isabella  did  not  notice. 
But  when  she  finished  by  saying  that 
they  might  hear  Henri  de  Lancy  ride 
by  nightly,  since  the  nearest  way  to 
his  beloved  duchess  led  by  Montalme, 
they  suddenly  heard  a  painful  quiver 
like  the  dropping  of  a  little  bird 
which  had  been  shot  through  the 
heart.  Blanche  had  fainted  and  fallen. 

76 


BLANCHE 

"  Cruel  woman  !  "  exclaimed  Gott 
fried,  furiously,  "  must  you  tell  ?  I 
could  be  silent !  " 

He  had  long  known  of  Henri's 
infidelity. 

Consciousness  soon  returned  to  the 
poor  girl,  and  with  it  the  recollection 
of  her  sorrow.  Blanche  longed  to  lose 
herself  again,  but  the  blessing  was 
denied  her.  Not  even  the  repose  of 
sleep  did  Heaven  grant  her.  She 
would  lie  awake,  listening  feverishly 
the  whole  night ;  but  no  sound  dis 
turbed  the  deathlike  stillness  either 
the  first  or  the  second  night.  During 
the  day  Blanche  dragged  herself  from 
room  to  room,  as  if  her  once  flying 
feet  were  weighted  with  lead,  but 
77 


BLANCHE 

most  of  the  time  she  sat  stiffly  erect 
with  her  hands  lying  helplessly  in  her 
lap,  staring  before  her  with  glazed 
eyes. 

The  third  day  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  Gottfried  came  in,  and,  seating 
himself  beside  her,  inquired  after  her 
health.  She  replied  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  with  her,  but  at  the  same 
time  crept  close  to  him  like  a  very  sick 
child,  and  he,  who  had  usually  repulsed 
her  innocent  caresses,  now  put  his  arm 
around  her  slender  body  and  laid  her 
little  head  tenderly  on  his  shoulder ; 
he  no  longer  thought  of  his  own  pain, 
but  of  hers. 

She  begged  him  to  tell  her  a  story, 
as  a  sick  child  begs  for  a  cradle-song. 

78 


BLANCHE 

He  had  told  her  many  a  tale  in  by 
gone  days,  yet  of  all  she  liked  best  to 
hear  of  his  own  adventures  and  what 
he  himself  had  seen.  Therefore  he 
asked  now,  "A  true  story,  my  jewel  ?" 
She  shuddered,  "  Oh,  no  !  no  !  a  fic 
tion,  my  uncle,  pray  !  " 

He  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully 
over  his  brow.  Nothing  occurred  to 
him  but  a  little  legend  which  had 
been  told  him  by  a  half-crazy  monk 
who  was  crouching  on  the  steps  of  the 
Milan  Cathedral,  and  with  a  somewhat 
tremulous  voice  he  began  : 

"  It  happens  occasionally  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  blessedness  of  heaven  an 
angel  looking  down  yearns  for  earth, 
which  seems  attractive  in  the  enchant- 
79 


BLANCHE 

ment  of  distance.  Then  St.  Peter,  at 
the  Almighty's  command,  grudgingly 
opens  the  gates  of  heaven  a  little,  and 
the  angel  slips  through.  But  however 
much  he  exerts  himself  and  beats  his 
wings,  the  little  fluttering  things  carry 
him  up,  and  he  cannot  escape  from 
the  spheres  of  sinless  purity  which 
float  around  Paradise.  St.  Peter  rattles 
his  bunch  of  keys  and  again  the  gates 
of  heaven  open,  and  now  on  the 
threshold  stands  Jesus  Christ,  well- 
beloved  Son  of  the  Father,  and  infi 
nitely  compassionate  Son  of  Man,  who 
knows  the  earth  thoroughly.  And 
when  the  lovely,  unwise  rebel  turns 
his  gold-encircled  little  head  to  ques 
tion  him  concerning  it,  he  beckons 

80 


BLANCHE 

him  to  come  nearer,  and  smiling  lays 
a  warm  beating  weight  on  his  breast. 
Then  he  says,  '  Try  it ! ' 

"  And  lo !  when  now  the  angel  at 
tempts  to  lift  his  wings  the  little 
weight  which  Jesus  Christ  has  laid 
on  his  breast  draws  him  down  to  earth 

—  for  the  weight   is   a   human  heart. 
Slowly,  slowly  he  descends   from   the 
spheres    until    he    lands    on    a    green 
meadow.     There  he  sinks  into  a  deep, 
dreamless  sleep,  and  when  he  awakes 
he    has    lost    his  wings,    forgotten    his 
heavenly  origin,  and  has  become  a  man 

—  only  with  an  intense  longing  in  his 
soul  for  virtue  and  purity,  which  he  is 
not    himself    aware    is    homesickness ; 
holiness,  happiness,  heaven,  and  home 
81 


BLANCHE 

being  to  him  unconsciously  one  and 
the  same  thing.  Yet  but  now  how- 
e'er  much  his  yearning  may  hurry 
him  upward  again,  his  heart  chains 
him  fast  to  the  earth  and  he  cannot 
return  to  his  radiant  home  until  a 
great  human  grief  has  broken  the 
heart  which  was  laid  on  his  breast. 
Then  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  glides 
downward  to  earth  —  takes  the  poor 
rebel  in  his  arms  and  carries  him  back 
to  Paradise." 

Gottfried  paused.  Blanche  was  si 
lent  a  moment,  then  she  sighed,  "Your 
story  is  sad,  almost  as  sad  as  if  it  were 
a  true  one  !  " 

To  which  Gottfried  replied,  "  But  it 
has  a  lovely  ending  !  " 

82 


BLANCHE 

The  sad  maiden,  however,  was  per 
fectly  silent,  and  looking  into  her 
melancholy  eyes  he  discerned  a  doubt 
in  them  if  even  the  joy  of  heaven 
could  compensate  for  that  which  we 
suffer  and  are  deprived  of  on  earth. 

After  a  little  while  Blanche  began, 
"  Is  the  dear  God  then  displeased  if 
an  angel  looking  down  yearns  for  the 
earth  ? " 

"No,"  murmured  Gottfried,  "but  he 
is  sad,  very  sad  !  " 


X 


FOR  two  nights  she  had  had  no 
sleep ;  on  the  third  she  was  exhausted 
and  slept  soundly,  and  dreamed  a  sweet 
—  wonderfully  sweet  dream. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  met  her 
beloved  in  the  garden.  A  delicious 
perfume  was  wafted  from  the  crown 
of  the  lindens,  soft  greenish  shadows 
spread  twilight  over  the  earth,  and  all 
nature,  as  in  measureless  rapture,  held 
its  breath,  no  lightest  touch  of  air 
stirred  —  she  lay  in  his  arms,  love- 

84 


BLANCHE 

enchanted    and    his    lips    closed    her 
mouth. 

Thus  she  dreamed  —  when  suddenly 
she  sprang  up  as  if  one  had  struck  her 
heart  with  an  iron  hammer. 

Was  not  that  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoof  which  broke  on  the  stillness  of 
night  ?  In  her  long  white  nightdress 
she  flew  to  the  window. 

She  recognised  him,  notwithstand 
ing  the  speed  of  his  horse,  and  in 
spite  of  the  curtain  of  darkness  with 
which  midnight  sought  to  veil  his 
figure.  She  bent  far  over  the  window- 
breasting  and  stretched  out  her  arms ; 
a  frightful  longing  confused  her  senses, 
and  she  sang  —  poor  child !  —  without 
knowing  what  the  words  meant : 
85 


BLANCHE 

"  Si  tu  veux  m'apaiser 
Redonne  —  moi  la  vie 
Par  1'esprit  d'un  baiser. 

"  Heureux  sera  le  jour 
Quand  je  mourrai  d'amour !  " 

Louder  and  louder  the  voice  swelled 
out,  piercing  as  a  cry  of  anguish ;  yet 
full  of  a  powerful  sweetness  the  song 
echoed  through  the  sultry  stillness  of 
night.  It  struck  the  ear  of  the  rider. 
He  checked  his  horse,  looked  around 
him,  and  then  spurred  the  animal  anew 
until  he  leaped  wildly  on. 

She  bent  forward  —  farther  forward, 
—  "  Plus  d'espoir  !  "  she  groaned.  Her 
heart  was  so  heavy,  so  heavy !  Beneath, 
the  dew  glistened  like  a  silver  sheen 

86 


BLANCHE 

over  the  azure  fields,  out  of  which  an 
angel  seemed  calling  her  to  "  Cool  rest 
—  cool  rest !  " 

She  bent  forward  —  forward  !  and 
then  fell  many,  many  fathoms  deep 
into  the  moat  below. 


The  heavy  fall  was  heard  in  the 
castle,  and  soon  the  servants  with 
torches  hurried  forth  to  see  what  had 
happened. 

There,  below,  glimmered  something 
white  as  a  blossom  broken  off  by  the 
storm.  They  climbed  down.  The 
light  of  the  torches  played  over  a  pale, 
lovely  face  which  smiled  in  death. 
She  was  not  disfigured,  not  a  particle 
87 


BLANCHE 

of  dust,  not  a  speck  of  mud  or  soil 
of  earth,  adhered  to  her  white  gar 
ment,  although  she  had  fallen  among 
plants  growing  in  the  mud.  In  spot 
less  purity  the  white  folds  wound  about 
her  beautiful  limbs.  And  when  the 
people  saw  this,  they  marvelled,  and 
said,  "  A  miracle  !  "  Then  one  pressed 
through  the  throng,  deathly  pale  with 
distorted  face  —  Henri  de  Lancy  ! 

But  Gottfried  coldly  turned  him 
away  from  the  dead  maiden. 

Right  tenderly  the  old  soldier  lifted 
the  lovely  body  in  his  arms,  murmur 
ing : 

"  Her  heart  was  broken  —  she  is 
released ! " 


88 


XI 

IT  was  an  age  full  of  horrors,  when 
the  noblest  blood  of  illustrious  Hellen 
ism  rose  up  to  face  a  background  of 
battles,  orgies,  and  pulpit  harangues. 
It  was  not  only  a  period  in  which 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  in  disguise  and 
at  the  head  of  a  bacchanalian  troop 
tore  through  the  streets  of  Florence ; 
Benvenuto  Cellini  stabbed  his  enemies 
at  the  street  corners ;  Pope  Leo  at  a 
cardinal's  supper  presented  a  sacrifice 
of  doves  to  the  Goddess  of  Love  upon 
a  white  marble  altar,  and  offered  to 
89 


BLANCHE 

his  favourite,  Raphael,  a  cardinal's  hat 
in  payment  of  his  bills  —  but  a  time 
also  when  Savonarola  preached  the 
loftiest  asceticism ;  Rabelais,  in  the 
midst  of  his  obscene  rhapsodies,  cre 
ated  the  wonderful  idyl  of  1'Abbaye  de 
Telesme;  Fra  Angelico  on  his  knees 
painted  his  picture  of  Christ,  and  the 
triumphal  procession  of  an  emperor 
ended  in  a  monastery! 

A  time  full  of  enigmas  !  and  among 
the  many  enigmas  which  lived  in  it, 
was  one  of  a  sad,  silent  monk,  of 
whom  his  cloister-brethren  asserted 
that  he  once  had  led  a  very  dissolute 
life,  but  now  was  the  most  absorbed 
devote. 

And  whilst  King  Francis,  at  vari- 

90 


BLANCHE 

ance  with  himself  and  the  world,  tried 
to  maintain,  even  to  the  end,  the  appear 
ance  of  ostentatious  levity,  and  to  win 
fresh  renown  as  a  patron  of  art,  and  to 
console  himself  for  his  lost  self-respect 
with  the  flatteries  of  the  Duchess 
d'Etampes,  this  monk  devoted  every 
single  hour  which  remained  to  him, 
after  the  barest  satisfaction  of  his 
physical  needs,  and  the  fulfilment  of 
his  religious  duties,  to  one  and  the 
same  work,  —  a  sweet  girl's  head,  — 
which  he,  with  his  slender,  effemi 
nate,  courtier's  hand,  formed  out  of 
wax  after  a  death  mask,  and  ever  again 
re-formed,  and  could  never  finish  to 
his  own  satisfaction.  Discouraged,  dis 
appointed,  he  destroyed  each  day  the 
91 


BLANCHE 

work  of  the  preceding  —  until  finally, 
in  the  very  last  year  of  his  life  he 
became  more  tranquil,  and  then  under 
his  never-weary  hands  arose  an  ex 
quisite  maiden's  head  with  a  sweet, 
thoughtful  expression  of  face,  —  the 
little  head  bent  forward  as  if  listening 
to  a  great  joy,  yet  weighed  down  by 
the  presentiment  of  a  terrible  pain ! 

And  he  worked  at  the  head  on  his 
knees,  like  Fra  Angelico  at  his  ecstatic 
pictures  of  saints,  and  he  coloured  it 
most  beautifully  —  but  still,  not  as  if 
it  were  the  head  of  a  living  maiden, 
but  as  of  one  who  had  died  in  the 
freshness  of  youth.  When  he  suc 
ceeded,  he  smiled  and  closed  his  eyes 
for  ever. 

92 


XII 

AFTER  long  wanderings,  the  bust 
has  found  a  resting-place  in  the  mu 
seum  at  Lille.  Full  of  a  dreamy 
pathos,  it  stands  in  its  glass  case  —  an 
atonement  for  Love  betrayed  —  in 
memory  of  the  bitterest  repentance. 

As  the  embodiment  of  an  old  leg 
end,  it  interests  us  and  seems  to  say : 
"  A  tear  for  Blanche  of  Montalme ; 
for  Henri  de  Lancy  —  a  prayer !  " 


93 


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DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  674  390     0 


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